A story is told of a convalescent woman and the lovely vine that grew in her yard. Confined to her property during her long recovery from an accident, she turned her attention to the little plot of ground behind her home. She planted the vine on a cool spring morning, dreaming of the day when, given enough time and care, it would grow to cover the wall that marked the boundary of her property.
The woman loved her plant and tended to it conscientiously, pruning it, watering it, nourishing it. Under her care it took root and grew steadily, always reaching, always grasping, always clinging, as it spread both upward and outward. Before many seasons had passed, it covered her wall with its lush green leaves. But, despite her best efforts, it produced blossoms that were very tiny and very few. Nevertheless, she found in her plant a source of great wonder and true delight.
And so did the townsfolk, for unbeknownst to her, the roots had pressed beneath the foundation of the wall, the branches had pushed through its cracks, and the tendrils had reached up and over its top where they spilled over the far side in a wondrous cascade of beautiful, fragrant flowers. Many, passing by, paused to admire their beauty. Visiting friends described the scene to her and explained that the plant must prefer the far side of the wall, for where her yard was shadowed by the boughs of mighty oaks and elms, the other side was unshaded; where her yard caught only the cool morning light, the other side was exposed to the full heat of the afternoon sun. It was there, on the far side, that the blooms were biggest, most vibrant, most fragrant, and loveliest.
She paused to consider these reports that her flowers were thriving on the far side of the wall. Should she lament that she could not see the best of their beauty, that others would enjoy them in a way she could not? She determined she would utter no complaint. She would rejoice in the beauty of her flowers, though she could not see them. She would find joy in the delight of the friends and strangers who crowded around them. And she anticipated the day when, healed and whole, she could at last pass through the garden gate and see them for herself.
Like all fathers, I had hopes for my son, but quickly learned that it was best to allow him to dream his own dreams, then to support him in the directions he chose. He came to dream of a simple, quiet life dedicated to family and the local church. And he set out to realize that ambition. He began to identify his gifts and to prepare himself to deploy them for the good of others and the glory of God. He began to hone talents and develop skills that would equip him for a lifetime of pastoral ministry. He began to sharpen his character, to advance in wisdom and stature and in favor with God and man. He was making steady progress; he was on all the right trajectories. And then he was gone. He was gone before I could see him realize any of his dreams. He died a fiancé, not a husband; a student, not a graduate; an intern, not a pastor. He died before we could see him as a married man, a proud father, an ordained minister of the gospel. There was so much he left undone, so many beginnings and so few ends.
There was so much he left undone, so many beginnings and so few ends.
So what has become of all those dreams and ambitions? What has become of all that progress and advancement? What has become of his characteristic kindness and his disposition toward gentleness? What of his desire to serve God by serving others? Did it all pass away with him?
Surely not. Is it not likely that such noble dreams and ambitions, such rare and precious traits, are even more at home in heaven than on earth? Is it not plausible that in that place of perfection, they have not been erased but rather increased, not diminished but multiplied? Is it not appropriate, then, that I should turn my lamentation into praise, my grief into hope, my sorrow into expectation, confident that Nick has gone where he can thrive, where he can flourish, where his every dream can be made good? For, though I cannot now see him, I can be certain that he is blooming there, on the other side of the wall, where the sun is brighter, where all shadows are gone. And I can anticipate the day when, I, too, will pass through the garden gate to finally see him in that place where he has gone not to die but to truly live.
This article is drawn from my book Seasons of Sorrow (which is currently less than half price at Amazon)
